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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323600">03.2017 Sherlock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Vincenzi/pseuds/Jen_Vi_J'>Jen_Vi_J (JJ_Vincenzi)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:15:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,647</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Vincenzi/pseuds/Jen_Vi_J</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the start of a story I began in 2017 and return to every so often thinking of how to progress it. Sharing in case others think it would be interesting to continue.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>03.2017 Sherlock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the start of a story I began in 2017 and return to every so often thinking of how to progress it. Sharing in case others think it would be interesting to continue.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I haven’t said this before… I didn’t think it something I was capable of saying with actual emotion attached,” Grace whispered into the phone, “but… I love you.” A tear fell down her cheek as she took a steadying breath before finishing, “I’m doing this for you.</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Watson and Sherlock were arguing as they approached their home when they both stopped at the sight of a collapsed body leaning against their door. Exchanging a glance they carefully climbed the stairs. Watson leaned down and pulled the hood off the figure to reveal a pale and unconscious teenager. Her next move was to check for a pulse. “It’s really faint,” she confirmed. “I’ll call an ambulance,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone but maintaining observation of the girl. Once the call was made Watson suggested they move the girl inside at the shocking coldness of her skin but when Sherlock lifted her, the girl let out a strangled yelp of pain. Watson stepped forward and opened the coat she was wearing. What was revealed was a surprise to them both. The girl was in a straight jacket which was dirty and smeared with blood. “Open the door Watson,” Sherlock said with the girl still in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laying her on the table, Watson removed the coat from the girl. She was wearing the straight jack and a pair of thin hospital pants with no laced shoes. “Get some water and my bag,” Watson said to Sherlock who was observing the girl intensely. When he returned with the items he was sent to retrieve Watson had removed the straight jacket. The girl had a tank top on which was soaked in blood from a stomach and shoulder wound. As they both observed the wounds and Watson worked to wash away the blood as to see the wound type, a seemingly self inflicted tattoo appeared on the inside of the girl’s left bicep, “If lost… Sherlock.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Our facility is a state of the art, highly secret research facility,” the suit was explaining to them as he led them to the office where their target sat. “Thank you Richard, I will take it from here,” the older man said waving the suit away. “How can I help you?” he said, glancing up from his papers. “We’d like to know more about the youth brain trust aspect of your research facility and what exactly you’re using them for,” Sherlock said straight to the point. The man looked up more intently and smiled at them. “What an odd thing to suppose,” he mused, “what makes you think I have children here?” “Call it a hunch,” Watson said coldly. There was a long pause and then the man offered, “true we use youth. But not in any way that is improper. We collect geniuses, child progenies and mentor them… fostering their intelligence.” “To what end?” Watson asked. “Well, it depends on which contract they are working on,” the man said sitting back in his chair, crossing his fingers over his stomach. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Sherlock returned to the brownstone to a seemingly empty house. “Watson?” he called, but no answer. He then pulled out his phone and sent his partner a text before walking into the kitchen to make tea. As he sat at his computer he heard a loud thump from somewhere upstairs. He ignored it until the third time and finally got up after the fourth to see what it was. He found nothing on the second level and moved to the third level where he found one of the empty room doors open. When he entered the room he saw their current case’s victim in a full headstand with a straw in her mouth connecting her to a very large vodka bottle. He made an annoyed sound and she fell over, making the thumping sound once more that he had come to investigate. “Grace, what are you doing?” he asked annoyed. She rolled over and lifted her head to look at him. She then opened her mouth and started rattling off quantum mechanical functions, drunkenly, but correctly. “Grace,” he said annoyed once more. She paused and then began reciting Aristotle. “Grace!” he shouted, interrupting her and she shut her mouth tightly, scurrying herself up into a ball, with her head between her knees. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping into the room suddenly sensitive to the PTSD fit he had just sent her into. “I’m sorry,” she mimicked. He held up his hands to show he meant no harm and stepped in further, until he was about a foot in front of her. He sat down and said, “I am sorry.” She looked up at him. “So… much in here,” she pointed to her head, “and it never shuts off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watson returned as Sherlock was heading back upstairs with tea. “Company?” she asked. “It appears our victim is an escape artist,” he sighed as he scaled the steps to the third level. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s drunk!” Joan said looking Sherlock surprised. “Found her practicing headstand while sipping vodka through a straw,” he shrugged handing their company a cup of tea. Grace was whispering something to herself. “Grace, you need to go back to the hospital,” Joan said squatting down in front of the teenager. “One doctor is like the doctor with the … and then there are so many others!” Grace was saying pressing her hands to her temples. Joan and Sherlock exchanged looks.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Sherlock sat across from the psychiatrist assigned to Grace. As a ‘Jane Doe’ and no legal guardian, the courts had granted the police access to evaluations to Grace on the grounds that there might be something they can use to solve her case. It had been two weeks since Sherlock and Watson had brought the teenager here and told her it was imperative that she stay put. It was the longest they had managed to get her to do anything. Sherlock was here to get a report on the analysis from the doctors who monitored her. “It would appear that she has been subjected to long term and sustained cognitive stressors,” the doctor was explaining. “To what end?” Sherlock asked. “We can’t be certain. It might have something to do with whatever she was working on, or them testing methods on her… all we can say is that at first it was like she was in a constant state of PTSD with very few fully lucid moments.” “Was?” Sherlock quizzed. “Within the past day or so it appears that something has shifted. Her blood showed no signs of drugs or foreign chemicals but it’s like she is coming out of a drug dosing. She is lucid, calm, mature, …” the doctor was discussing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock made his way down the hall to Grace’s room. He was reviewing the facts in his head as we walked. He approached her door and knocked. There wasn’t an answer so he pushed the door open to see Grace pulling a shirt on over her head with her back to him. But it was the odd patterned scarring on her back that caught his eyes. Quickly he backed out and knocked on her door louder. Still no answer he stood there, looking around. Before he could decide what to do next Grace pulled the door open. She was startled to see him as he was her. When she pulled the wireless earbud from her ear, he realized she was listening to something so loud she wasn’t aware he had walked in or knocked. “Mr. Holmes,” she said breathlessly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked out into the courtyard to a bench. They sat silently for a while and watch as the other patients walked around the large yard. “I’ve just spoken to Dr. McclIntock,” Sherlock started the conversation. She offered a tight smile but no eye contact. “He said you are very much altered since when we first came into each other’s company,” he continued. Still she said nothing. “Do you think you could give me your name? Full name? So that the NYPD might contact a parent or family member?” he continued. “I don’t have one. A family,” she said softly offering a sad smile to him, still avoiding eye contact. “Would you like to talk about what happened?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “When you came to my home you were in a straight jacket and injured from a knife wound to your shoulder and stomach,” he recounted. “A scalpel,” she corrected. He offered a quizzical look. “I struggled with a doctor who was changing out my nano links and tracker. He tried to subdue me with the scalpel in his hand. It did not work,” she answered emotionless. “Nano links?” Sherlock asked but Grace didn’t offer more. “You are from the Institute,” he stated. “I am,” she nodded. “How long have you been there?” he asked. “I have always been there,” she answered without much thought. “Can you tell me about the projects they have you working on? Or who your main contacts are? Their methods?” he prattled off. He saw her tense and slowed his inquiry. “They have told you here that I am better?” she asked some time later. “Indeed,” Sherlock said shifting his body position. “Can I be released?” she asked looking in his direction but avoiding eye contact. “I’m not sure… where would you go?” he asked. Her face wrinkled slightly, “back to the Institute.” “What?” he huffed. “I would go back to where I live… that is the Institute… I have nowhere else to go,” she said rationally, calculated. “Grace, they tortured you over an extended amount of time and had you on the point of a catatonic PTSD mental breakage,” he tried to convince her. “I have periods of overactive and hypersensitive brain functionality. They have methods, though maybe unconventional, to handle me in my manic periods.” Sherlock just stared at her in shock and speechless.</span>
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